


Holding Cell

by Vana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Davos' smuggling past, M/M, Nobody loses any fingers this time though, Prison Sex, Road Trip, improbable car repair scenarios, improbable law enforcement scenarios, pure filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 20:43:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2283900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vana/pseuds/Vana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Davos is driving too fast in the middle of Wyoming, and who should pull him over but the most uptight -- and most sexually repressed -- sheriff in the state, one Stannis Baratheon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding Cell

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a friend who wanted to remain anonymous, who asked for "cop/pulled over for a speeding ticket AU" on a Tumblr meme. Dearest requester, you've done so much for me and my ship; I hope I've done your idea justice.

Davos tapped his fingers along the steering wheel in time with the classic rock station on the radio while the miles flew by on U.S. 287 in central Wyoming. In another 50 miles or so he’d be at Lander where he had a room booked in a Rodeway Inn he’d found online. The thought of a bed — any bed, or even a comfortable recliner — propelled him on. He looked at the clock: 7:20. Too early to stop anyway. He had been driving since Omaha and couldn’t stop now.

Except he was going to have to, because there were flashing lights behind him. “Fuck!” he exclaimed, slamming his hand down on the wheel. Surely he hadn’t been going that fast on this two-lane road. He sighed heavily and pulled the car over.

The sheriff — it turned out to be a sheriff, not a highway patrolman — stepped out of his car smartly as Davos watched from his rearview side mirror. He was prepared to be friendly, but the sheriff was none too pleased. Davos figured at least he ought to be grateful to collect some state revenue on a sleepy Sunday night. And he hoped fervently that the guy wouldn’t pull his file.

“Do you have any idea how fast you were going?” the sheriff snapped out.

“No, sir,” he said, putting on a rueful smile and peering out at the nametag, “Sheriff Baratheon.” He stumbled over the name a little, but registered some surprise in the man’s face even so. Probably no one out here even came close.

“My gun said you were going 69,” Baratheon said. His tone was that of a very impatient schoolteacher. Davos kept the grin on even though he was starting to get worried. That was 19 miles over the speed limit, which would definitely _not_ merit just a warning. And Baratheon was sure to check out his record. That would mean trouble. Sure enough, “License and registration,” and when Davos raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, the sheriff closed his lips firmly as if to say, as clear as day, “No, I will _not_ say ‘please.’”

Davos sighed in resignation. “I have a few highlights on my record,” he said, digging through his wallet, “I’m sure they’ll show—”

“I don’t need your explanations,” Baratheon cut him off. “License, registration, and proof of insurance.”

 _What a prick_. This could be a longer night than he had bargained for. He handed over the papers, watched as the sheriff stalked back to his car and then sat silently, cursing himself for the hundredth time for his youthful indiscretions. Sure, it hadn’t been the smartest idea to start working with Roro Uhoris in Miami, whether or not Uhoris told him he was only bringing sugar and souvenir mirrors back from Cuba on the _Cobblecat_. Davos should have been more incredulous. Then he got in with the Saans, Salladhor and Samarro, and by that point he was stoned often enough not to care what he was smuggling home. For awhile nothing had bothered them and they trod a happy path between Gainesville and the Keys, picking up both men and  women in bikinis and tight shorts, rolling fragrant joints in the backs of moored boats, and sleeping off their rum benders under palm trees. 

Then the law caught up with Roro Uhoris. He sold out the Saans, their partners and Davos, and the rest was history. Davos served a few months, paid a few thousand dollars and did a lot of community service that mainly entailed driving vans for the Salvation Army. Then he moved to Minneapolis, got a real job running sound for a hip concert hall, and had lived a relatively quiet life, steering well out of the way of the law — until, of course, he decided to drive west for a vacation, stepped too hard on the gas pedal and ran afoul of Sheriff Baratheon.

Sure enough, here he came back. His eyes were wide and, Davos noticed quite irrelevantly, a shocking shade of blue. They met his own for a moment, searching and softening, before the sheriff blinked in confusion and his stern look reappeared, twice as angry as before as if daring Davos to look him in the face one more time.

“You’re coming with me,” Baratheon said. “Get in the cruiser.”

“What? My record has been clean for years.”

“You’re a dangerous criminal, time served or not. I can’t have you on the streets of my patrol district at night.”

“Oh, for Christ’s… Can I at least call a lawyer?” This was becoming more ridiculous than even Davos had dreamed of.

“You can call anyone you want once we’re at the station. I’m only going to tell you this one more time and then you’re resisting arrest. Mr. Seaworth — g _et out of the car_.”

Davos decided it was better to play along. There would be no more “sir”-ing, but he wouldn’t be a jerk, either. He had a card in his wallet that he could find and call the name on it, although he had hoped he would never need to again. But if he did have to call, he had been told Varys could sort anything out. “I hope he’s good,” Davos thought, “and that he can come to the ass-end of Wyoming in time for me not to kill this guy or vice versa.”

He said none of this as he walked around to the sheriff’s cruiser. Baratheon, too, was silent. No point in making conversation — at least not yet. Davos would play nice — not so hard, since by nature he preferred to avoid unnecessary confrontation — and call Varys if he had to. For now, though, there would be no bed in Lander. 

“I’ll have to call my motel too,” he ventured as the sheriff shuffled away his papers into the back and buckled his seat belt. “Have to tell them I’m not coming.”

Baratheon looked sideways at him. “You think I’m going to detain you all night?”

“I don’t know what you’re going to do,” said Davos honestly. “I’m just thinking out loud, if I’m not going to be there, I might as well let them know so they can re-rent the room.”

The sheriff turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. Davos looked over in surprise; the cruiser had been running fine when it tracked him down and pulled him over. “Damn it,” Baratheon swore. “Dead. I’ll have to call for backup.”

“You want me to jump it?”

Again that look of surprise; again the light caught the blue; again Davos' stomach lurched. “You’d use your car to jump the battery on my cruiser so I can take you to jail?”

Davos shrugged.

“I’ll just call for backup,” Baratheon said, but his tone had a little less ice in it. 

“Hey, Stannis,” said the crackling voice on the other end of the radio. The sheriff looked angry that now Davos knew his first name. “What’s up?”

“I’m out on 287 about 50 miles from Lander and my patrol car is dead,” Stannis Baratheon said. “I’m going to need a jump.”

“Ten-twenty-three,” the dispatch voice said. _Stand by_. 

“Stannis, they’re all out at Riverton on a meth lab bust. Gonna call Carson, 10-23.”

Stannis waited. Davos tapped his fingers on his jeans to the song that had been playing before he saw the lights in his rearview. “Stannis, you there? Carson’s 75 miles from you. Can you hang tight?”

Davos saw Stannis look over at him. “Ten-four,” he said, “thanks, Mike. Don’t send him yet. I’ll let you know.”

“Ten-four,” Mike signed off.

“You never said you had anyone to bring in,” Davos said. He was honestly surprised as hell. “I thought you’d call out the National Guard for me.”

The glare he received was one of the most cutting he had ever been on the end of. But: “Let’s try to get it going,” the sheriff said. “I don’t want my tow truck driver to have to come so far if he doesn’t have to.”

It took longer than Davos had expected to jump the battery. Stannis' jumper cables were woefully rusted, but then he didn’t want Davos to go to his own car unattended to look for his set. Davos’ patience was wearing thin and then thinner when he almost attached the wrong cables in the growing darkness. He hated to admit it even to himself, but it was difficult to concentrate on positive and negative terminals with Stannis over his shoulder. And then the flashlight died.

Eventually, he emerged triumphant. The cruiser hummed to life and Davos re-parked his own car neatly along the side of the highway where it had been, then slid back into the passenger side of the patrol car. He pushed back his sweat-dampened hair with a dirty hand.

“Thank you,” Stannis said formally. “I appreciate the help.”

An awkward, silent moment passed, and Davos tried one more tack. “So … is that worth letting me go with a harsh word and a warning?” He softened the request with a small, tentative, genuine smile. “I’ll even pay what the ticket would have been….”

Stannis’ temper broke, washing over Davos, who sat stunned. “You— How dare you? You’re trying to _bribe_ me!” 

“No, I—"

“I don’t take bribes! That’s a perversion of justice and I don’t stand for such things.”

“Stannis—"

His only answer was the squeal of tires and the jerk of his entire body against the back of the seat as Stannis peeled off onto the highway. He was going at least twice as fast as Davos had been going when he got pulled over and his entire body radiated rage: his jaw was clenched, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“Fuck _this,_ ” Davos said under his breath. He didn’t care if Stannis heard him. Why had he helped the guy out anyway? Was it just because of how his lean body looked in his tan uniform, and how his tie hung so perfectly that Davos had subconsciously wanted to take it off? Was it his eyes? _Are you that much of a slut, Seaworth?_ Right now, though, he felt only anger. They rode in silence.

 

Once at the jail — which turned out to be a two-room, clapboard structure straight out of a Western movie — Stannis pushed Davos none too gently into the single holding cell that abutted the office. _Varys_ , Davos reminded himself as his heart pounded. Varys would get him out of this, no matter how unpleasant it was in the meantime. He looked around for a telephone.

The place was empty; the clock read 9:30 at night. He still hadn’t called the Rodeway, but that was the least of his concerns at the moment. Where was all the staff? Maybe there was none. Maybe no one was on duty at this hour except the sheriff himself, who was writing something furiously at the desk — a ticket, no doubt, or maybe an execution order. Maybe Stannis would have him at his mercy, alone, without accountability. He didn’t know why the idea sent butterflies dancing wildly in his stomach, or made his face flush and darken under the harsh fluorescent lights. 

Stannis was fiddling with something in the upper corner. Removing wires, unplugging a cord, loosening a component. _The camera_ , Davos realized with a cold shiver. _He’s disabling the security camera._

He cleared his throat. “If I can ask …”

“You can’t,” Stannis ground out. Then he was attacking Davos so gracelessly that Davos didn’t know for a moment whether to fight Stannis off or bring him in closer. It was a kiss, but it was so harsh and awkward, and so entirely unexpected, that Davos was shocked into submission. He opened his mouth against Stannis’, trying to gentle the kiss but succeeding only in getting his tongue bitten. Clearly, Stannis hadn’t done this in a long time — if ever.

The thought that Davos could be his first — his first _what_ , he wasn’t sure — went straight to his cock and he found himself hard on the instant, and trying to take control he put his arms around Stannis and slid his hands down to his ass, fingers catching on the tan polyester uniform pants, grinding up against Stannis’ thigh. There was a low noise that could have come from either of them and then Stannis was shoving his hand into the front of Davos’ jeans, fumbling to get them off. Davos couldn’t help but laugh as he unbuttoned the fly, then made quick work of the front of Stannis’ pants.

“There’s nothing _funny,”_ Stannis said in pure rage. He was stronger than he looked and he pushed Davos up against the cell wall, face first. Davos’ fingers held onto the rough white-painted brick, digging into the grout between, while he tried to get his breath as Stannis moved away. He was slicking up his cock with something cold, a bottle of lotion from the desk, and Davos was grateful for the lubrication when Stannis pushed himself in without preamble, only spreading Davos’ legs slightly for his own convenience. Davos gasped in shock and stinging pain, and Stannis stopped half-inside, legs trembling. 

“You could’ve … ah, never fucking mind,” Davos said, because he wanted him back, in all the way, moving with him, foreplay or no foreplay. He reached around to hold Stannis’ hip and draw him in closer. Stannis’ only answer was an irritated grunt as he obliged. The sting lessened and a dull but growing pleasure built in Davos’ groin as Stannis fucked him without skill or style, pounding into him and pushing him up closer to the wall. Davos took himself in hand and closed his eyes as he jerked himself off, the glowing, electric heat growing closer and hotter …

“Stop that,” hissed Stannis. Then he put his own hand there instead, wrapping it around Davos’ aching cock, and the first touch made Davos go nearly insane, moaning embarrassingly and pushing into his hand. Stannis was amateurish in his motions, didn’t know how to find a rhythm, was clumsy and irregular, and Davos couldn’t get enough of it, chasing his climax faster and faster through a haze of pleasure. “Don’t stop,” he begged Stannis, “don’t stop, don’t stop…”

Stannis’ hand was becoming slick with pre-come and he jerked Davos off so fast that he was getting friction burn, and he was fucking Davos so hard that he knew he wouldn’t be able to sit down in his car without pain for days. It seemed like Stannis should have come by now — that they both should have — but somehow it went on, violently intense, with Davos colliding into the bricks with every thrust and Stannis pulling Davos’ cock with one hand and his hair with the other. Davos thought surely he would combust, his skin catch fire and his body implode in a bright flash, with Stannis behind him driving him harder into the wall, groaning into his ear, loud and animalistic and mind-bendingly hot.

At the end, Davos felt Stannis’ sharp teeth sinking into his shoulder, closing on his flesh. He let out a cry, half a scream and half a moan, as he finally came, shuddering against Stannis and feeling him contracting and spasming inside him and behind him. 

They collapsed then, falling into separate chairs, panting. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Davos, breathing hard and shaking his head, waiting for the world to come back into focus. The clock said fifteen minutes had passed. Davos could see where the bottle of lotion had fallen to the floor, and the lid where it had rolled to the other side of the cell. His surroundings slowly started to resolve. Stannis just glared at the wall.

Finally, Stannis spoke.

“You can go,” he said. “I’m not citing you.”

Davos stared. Was that it? He waited. Then he stood up, pulled up his jeans, shrugged into his coat and walked out, back to the car six miles away.

 

Three days later, he was in Seaview, Washington, and the friends he’d made at the waterfront motel had finally run out of booze. “Your turn to buy, Davos,” one comely young woman had said lazily. “There’s a liquor store a few miles down the road south.” 

He was at the checkout with the case of beer when against all sense the cashier carded him. “I’m forty-five,” Davos said in disbelief. “But I’ll take it.” He pulled out his wallet, but where his license should have been was an empty plastic window. 

“The fuck?” he said, mostly to himself.

“It’s fine,” said the pimply clerk. “You said you’re forty-five. You’re good. That’s $23.50.”

As he walked out, he remembered exactly where he’d left his license … and his registration … and his insurance card. They were on the passenger seat of the patrol car belonging to one Sheriff Stannis Baratheon, of Arapahoe, Wyoming. 

Back at the beach chairs around the motel pool, Davos pulled out his road map. “Where you headed next?” someone asked him — the girl who’d said it was his turn to buy. “We’re going to Seattle tomorrow, then maybe to Vancouver, heard there’s good shit there. You in?”

Davos smiled, shook his head. “No,” he said, “not this time.” He folded the map back and looked out over the pool, out toward the Pacific Ocean. It was nice, but so were the mountains, and the naked mesas of the West. “I’m headed back to Wyoming.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Conduct Unbecoming](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2443655) by [shadowsfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsfan/pseuds/shadowsfan)




End file.
